The Fifth Champion
Woodstock Day School I 2012 by Leo Lasden, Alex Hoffman, Trine Boode-Petersen. Teaser The Champions (a dramatized reprint of the records and reminiscences of Archiver Draven) And so the Gods declared there would be four. One Champion of each race. They would free Narvok from darkness and usher in a new age. And so it was not to be. As soon as the first swing of his hammer collides with the shard of hot metal, Alistair knows he has a masterpiece. The Forgelord is alone in his great hall. The echoes of his pounding reverberate throughout the dwarven stronghold. He feels something guiding his Forging, and lets it move his swing. Alistair steps back to survey his work. It is a blade fit for the Gods. A God'sBlade. The great crafter lays down his hammer and wipes the sweat from his brow. Agaritheus will be proud. Elanora sits in deep meditation. The temple is a lavish display of Faith. Elanora knows she, and it, are privileged with the Gods’ favor. However, she doesn’t spare herself time to gloat. In fact, the thought of boasting never crosses her mind. There is work to be done. For the most part, she relinquishes her hold on the Holy Light. But Elanora lets enough wash over her. Just enough so that she is still privy to the Gods’ whispers. She calls over a priest. He is young, clumsy too, so he rushes to her side, tripping over the folds of his alabaster robes. Elanora stifles a laugh, then bids him to seek out the others. They are ready to begin their crusade of unification, the Gods have told her. The Faith is strong. Cyrus fiddles with his knife. It is a pretty little thing. Sharp and wicked too. He eyes the picture of Agaritheus with disdain. He hears something move behind him in the shadows. He hears it approaching, ever so slightly. He doesn't turn. Just keeps looking straight ahead. In the split second before it attacks, his life plays out in front of him. He is young, about 12, he is undergoing tests. He is 15, a quiet boy, leaving his mother and the forest, to go live with the Champions. He is 20, a corpse of a woman hangs from the gallows. He weeps. The thing attacks. Cyrus flicks his weapon across the room, at the picture of Agaritheus. Bull's eye. Agaritheus studies his knew blade. The Greatsword is an intimidating sight, made more so by its maker’s presence. Alistair is perhaps the only Narvoki who can match Agaritheus in size and strength. It is a blessed weapon, some Court has seen to that. Agaritheus gives it an experimental swing and the world shakes. He smiles. It will go well with his crown. The Fifth sat alone. Soon, he thought. Soon. Teaser 2 James the sprite looked up into Narvok’s sky and giggled. That elixir had been dizzying, but a dare is a dare. He abruptly shivered, noticing the heavens were greying. James thought he'd better get home before the storm hit. He whistled and set off, but as he was making his way there, a sheet of fog fell, blinding James, and totally disorientating him. He was terrified (things like this never happened to sprites!), and he had that intense feeling that he was being watched by Someone or Something. James kept walking. "I'll make it home,” he said to himself. "I will, you just watch me.” He pressed on, but the fog only thickened, even to the point where it clung to and danced over his flashy fey clothing. “What devilry is this?!” he exclaimed, attempting to bat away the swirling smog. Still, he continued, now even more determined to reach home, where tea and bread would certainly await him. But the fog seemed determined to waylay him! It curled at James’ feet and more than once he stumbled. Suddenly, the sprite bumped into something hard. “Ow.” When he tried to move around it, he found it was huge and tall. James pushed on its surface, to no avail. He thought perhaps he could fly over it, so James pushed off and sailed upward, but the thing just didn't end. James came to a small slit in the massive structure. He pushed his arm inside and felt around. Realizing it was large enough to clamber into, he slipped inside. It was dark, and his eyes gave no hint they might soon adjust. So, like a blind man, James navigated by touch. He soon found the tunnel, for it was a tunnel, stretched on and on. By brushing his hands against its sides, James had discerned the structure was built of some sort of smooth rock. James took another step, then plummeted down, and down, and down. He screamed in fright. James looked down to see a patch of light getting bigger and bigger. Then he slammed into ground. The small room was illuminated by alchemical lanterns and when he looked around, James noticed several ancient fey sitting upon thorny thrones constructed from black vine. He’d heard stories, but this couldn’t be... The Unholy Court was a legend, a tale for scaring small sprites... right??? ... --- Silas Bile, newly appointed second mate of the Sea Vengeance, yanked his hood down and attempted to shake the water from his matted beard, with moderate success. As the dwarf squinted into the night, trying to make out the mainland, the Vengeance pitched hard against a rolling wave. Somewhere to his right, there was a curse. Bile began inching towards the sound, all the while keeping one hand on the mast. Damn rain, can’t see nothing, much less nobody. “Hello?” he called across the deck. One voice stood out from the chorus of grunts. “That you, Silas?” it asked. “Aye, Mr. Skinner.” The old dwarf Skinner shuffled slowly out of the rain. The ancient pirate had covered himself with a woolen cloak, so as to escape the hellish storm. “Unfavorable conditions, Second Mate Bile,” said Skinner, catching on. Bile grinned. “Almost demonic, Mr. Skinner.” At this, the old man shivered. “Aye, Second Mate Bile.” The dwarven pirate ship pitched again. With a start, Bile and Skinner both almost slipped upon the rain-sodden deck. “You alright, Mr. Skinner?” “Aye, Second Mate Bile.” “This storm make any sense to you, Mr. Skinner?” “Sir?” “It doesn’t seem right, does it, Mr. Skinner?” The old dwarf paused. “No, it doesn’t, Second Mate Bile.” “You reckon it’s a little too strong? Like I said, almost demonic.” “I hope you’re not suggesting Cedari-” Bile didn’t let the other pirate finish. “There’s another storm coming, Mr. Skinner. Not today, not tomorrow. But there’s a storm coming, and when it, no, if it clears, everything’ll change.” A vampire told me so when I hired him to assassinate my predecessor, thought Bile. But he didn't say so. And then, gazing out onto the violently rippling ocean of Narvok, the old dwarf Skinner nodded solemnly. --- Within a vast monastery in the far west, two Fifth Court priests knelt praying in harmony. Their meditation was interrupted when a messenger came sprinting in, panting, and gasping for air. When they made no inclination of acknowledging her presence, the woman took a moment to catch her breath. Then, after smoothing out her silken white robes, she hesitantly began to speak, "Good priests, we have heard word from farther east of demonic creatures led by a man in a dark robe burning through villages, killing women and children and taking the Zell hostage", she finished, still panting slightly. One of the priests, the one with the crown and the angel-wing blade, looked up. This was the High Priest of Narvok. "Leave us messenger, we will worry of this no further, such an attack would never make it this far" he said, evidently annoyed. But the following week, the messenger came again, this time not pausing to breathe. "The demon armies are less than an hour away, priests. This monastery will not survive, you must leave,” she implored the holy men. A frantic "Please!" was added. This time, the other priest, the one with the hood and the long cloak replied, "No, we will remain and fight.” Without reply, he messenger scurried from the room, obviously frightened. The two priests heard a crash from the lower levels of the monastery. "They must be closer than we expected,” said the High Priest. His companion nodded before both monks rose and continued down the monastery’s great staircase to witness a scene of utter carnage. Below, them burnt bodies lay all over the floor, demons of all kinds lay waste to the monastery. The creatures were hideous and evil. They were of all shapes and sizes. The wounds they inflicted writhed with shadowy fire. "There is nothing we can do to help here. We must flee" said the High Priest. At his words, the other man looked conflicted, but he complied. They left through a hidden passage known only to their order just as the entire monastery burst into flames. As they walked away, the two holy men could hear screams from inside their temple. This time the hooded man spoke, "High Priest, I will take a vow of silence until this horrible monstrosity is banished from Narvok. Forever." --- In a small town's local tavern, a strange man shrouded in a black cloak sat hunched over the bar. Mournfully, he looked down into his empty glass and felt that troubling sense of sobriety creeping up upon him. This would not do. "Another drink," he croaked. "Don't you think you've had enough?" asked the bartender, a weary, thick set, older gentleman. "It's been a long day," replied the stranger. Just then, another man approached the bar, eyeing the stranger inquisitively. "I don't recognise you, and you drink like a dog," he said. The stranger acknowledged this with only a grunt. "You're not from around here are you?" the man pressed. The stranger made no reply. The only sound in the tavern was the bartender, slowly refilling the glass. Bristling, the man leaned in close. "We don't like travelers in these parts," he said. His breath smelled of tobacco and sweat. "You'd best be on your way," said a second voice somewhere on the stranger's other side. If he'd turned to look behind him, he would've seen the men's hands drift towards their belts, where large dwarven knives were sheathed. Suddenly, the stranger, having guessed the thugs' intentions, whipped around and splashed the now full cup of mead in their faces; they yelped in surprise as he smashed their heads together with that special sort of strength a long bout of drinking gives one, before flinging them to the ground. Across the tavern, a third cutthroat threw his chair aside and rushed to help, but the stranger was faster; a dagger linked to a thin chain whipped out from inside his sleeve; it sped across the dimly-lit room and sunk itself into the third man's chest. Just before he died, the attacker could have sworn he saw the glint of a fang inside the stranger's mouth. The stranger looked saddened, not on account of the bodies, but because of the loss of his alcohol. That was before a cold, calloused hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and hurled him against the wall. The bartender held a knife to the traveller's throat. In the other hand, he fingered one of those sprite communication runes (pirated fae tech abounded in villages such as this one). "The police will be here any second now, sit tight," the old man breathed. --- The bartender launched a sizable gob of spittle in the stranger's direction, as the police, knights from the nearest fortress, dragged the murderer from the tavern. "He's coming, he's coming back," the prisoner mumbled, apparently reduced to a drunken haze. "Who's coming back?" asked the younger of the two policeman, a junior constable and squire in Alessandra the Great’s guard. "Pay no attention to him. He's just a drunk old fool," said the older one, a seasoned campaigner. The two men were dragging their captive through the streets now, and worried faces were peaking out from tentatively opened windows. A woman lead her two young children into their home. News traveled fast in border towns. "The dark wizard is returning," hissed the stranger to anyone who'd listen. "Shut up, you!" barked the older policeman, and he punched the man, hard. --- The following morning, two corpses lay in the woods: the policemen, with what looked like bite marks in their necks. --- For what seemed like the thousandth time that hour, the vampiress checked the blow gun. She sighed and wiped the sweat from her brow. Of course, the mission would succeed. Her team was too well trained for it not to. If any of them, even her, were to fall, another would step right in. After all, they had been handpicked by Prince Gillan. But something still worried the vampiress. She looked around at her men - Nathaniel, Carrioncrow, Bloodman, and more. All of them well trained. All of them deadly. The six vampires lay inside a ditch not two miles from the western woods’ border. They were armed to the teeth. No, to the fangs. Besides her blow gun, the vampiress carried several knives on her person. The rest of her team held daggers, short swords, and one even had a magic staff. Then there was a rustling from the path the ditch lay alongside. The targets were here. “Go,” the vampiress mouthed. Her fangs were radiant in the moonlight. The rest of the team, the ones not hiding in the ditch, sprung into action, swinging from tree branches, and darting behind bushes, making their way to the targets: a group of roughly ten humans and one of their infants. One down, two down, they were dropping like flies. For a second, the vampiress’ worries evaporated and she thought this plan might actually work. The humans spun around, swords drawn "Who's there?!” "Dammit," cursed the vampiress. She heard a knife drawn behind her. Bloodman sent his dagger streaking across the the bushes into the mans head. They all jumped out of the night and attacked. “Protect the child!” a human yelled. The vampires surrounded the targets in a neat ring, knives at the ready. All the time her dagger weaving, the vampiress darted into the circle, snatched up the child, and before anyone knew what had happened, she ran, and ran, and ran. --- Somewhere in the forest, Prince Gillan smiled. The Champions were gone, but he had his champion. Category:Games